"You know what I think?" Rourke's voice had taken on a taunting edge. "I think you're just another con artist who got hold of some good forgeries. Probably thought you could fool everyone with that calm act. That fancy car, those federal IDs."
He was trying to provoke her, she realized. Every word was calculated to make her angry, to give him something he could write up as combative behavior in his report. The tactic was transparent, almost amateur in its obviousness.
At the Bellhaven Police Department, Chief Marion Keats set down her phone with a frown. The call she'd just received had been oddly vague, but carried clear warnings: the suspect being brought in had significant federal connections that needed to be verified before processing.
Her office intercom buzzed. "Chief, we've got multiple inquiries coming in about a detention in progress. Something about federal oversight and military legal counsel."
Before she could respond, the radio on her desk crackled with Rourke's voice: "Station, Unit 47. Coming in with one for booking. Need to process quickly. Suspect involved in potential identity theft and fraud."
Keats heard the strain in his voice, the forced authority covering something else. She'd known Rourke long enough to recognize when he was trying to establish his version of events before questions could be asked.
The patrol car passed another intersection: Main Street, 6:52 p.m. Evelyn kept her mental log running, each detail crystal clear. She noticed Rourke checking his mirrors more frequently now—not just watching her, but scanning the roads behind them as if expecting something.
"Almost there," he announced with false cheerfulness. "Then we can have a nice long talk about those fake credentials. Maybe figure out who you really are."
But his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The radio's silence about his ignored verification requests was clearly unnerving him. Evelyn could read the signs of a man realizing he'd made a serious error, but choosing to dig deeper rather than admit his mistake.
Halverson's car stayed close behind, its presence a reminder of the younger officer's witnessed hesitation. Through the gathering dusk, Evelyn could see the police station's lights ahead, harsh fluorescent against the darkening sky. She noted the time again: 6:55 p.m.
Less than fifteen minutes had passed since leaving the gas station, but she could feel the shift in power dynamics. Rourke wasn't acting from authority anymore; he was acting from fear.
The patrol car slowed, turning into the station's lot as the last rays of sunlight faded from the sky. Security lights cast sharp shadows across the pavement, and Evelyn could see several officers standing near the entrance, their postures suggesting they were waiting specifically for this arrival. One held a phone to his ear, gesturing with obvious concern.
The fluorescent lights hummed mercilessly as Rourke marched Evelyn through the station's booking area. Officers looked up from their desks, their whispered conversations growing quiet as they caught her name during processing. The institutional smell of cleaning products and stale coffee hung in the air.
"Name for the record," the booking officer demanded, not looking up from his computer.
"Evelyn Marie Brooks," she stated clearly, her voice carrying across the now-hushed room.